The girl who stood before Drownlands was the sole person who could by any possibility appear as witness against him—could prove that he had been on the spot where Runham had perished; and this girl was now appealing to him for help. It was advisable that she should be conciliated—be placed under an obligation to himself.
He made no further attempt to pass her; he made no attempt to fulfil his threat that he would ride her down.
In a lowered tone he said, 'Where is your father?'
'A little way back,' answered Zita. 'How far back I cannot say. I ran—I ran.'
'I will go with you. Give me up that flail.'
'No,' she answered; 'I do not trust you. You would ride away when you had it.'
'I swear to you that I will not do that.'
She shook her head, retained the flail, slung it over her shoulder, and walked at his side.
Had she seen the contest? Had she seen him beat his adversary down—down into the river? Drownlands asked himself these questions repeatedly, and was tempted to question her, but shrank from so doing lest he should awake suspicions. He need not have feared that. Her whole mind was occupied with a single thought—her dying father.